


King

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Male Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Yuletide, tired vikings smooching under the mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Eivor visits Halfdan in Jorvik for Yule, smooching ensues.
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Halfdan Ragnarsson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	King

Eivor is warm all over by the time Halfdan makes an appearance at his own Yuletide feast in Jorvik, just drunk enough to wave eagerly as he catches the eldest remaining Ragnarsson’s eye and giddy enough with good cheer to thrill as Halfdan heads toward him.

“Eivor!” Halfdan booms, arms welcome-wide, a smile as broad as he is spreading over a face that looks less worn than the last time Eivor saw it.

“Halfdan Ragnarsson,” Eivor enthuses. “My king,” he adds, sketching a mischievous bow.

Halfdan huffs—he is not Eivor’s king—but there is delight shining in his eyes as his gaze rakes the younger man, and his cheeks are flushed with mead, cold, or both.

“You bow to no one here, Eivor,” Halfdan rumbles, stepping close enough for Eivor to feel the heat of his body even in the heat of the room.

“No?” Eivor asks, teasing. “You would not have me on my knees?” he asks, tongue mead-loose enough to acknowledge that he knows the look in Halfdan’s eyes, can scent the lust rolling off him in the air. Has known from the moment they met that Halfdan _would_ have him on his knees, again and again, and it would hardly ever be enough.

Halfdan is suddenly sharp, a predator scenting prey, and Eivor’s belly tightens in anticipation.

_Why not?_

A thunder-roll hum sounds in Halfdan’s chest as he steps forward, backing Eivor up a pace instinctively. He is not afraid of Halfdan, he knows he has nothing at all to fear from the other man, but his body reacts to the hunger he sees written plain over Halfdan’s face.

Halfdan glances above Eivor’s head, grin turning wolfish.

Eivor looks up as well to see a green sprig with white berries hanging overhead.

Mistletoe.

Halfdan is upon him in an instant, broad hand cupping Eivor’s cheek, so hot he feels it might leave a brand on his skin.

“Tell me no,” Halfdan murmurs, eyes searching, uncertain now, not with the paranoia Eivor has seen in them, but with the simple fear of rejection all men feel when showing their heart.

But Eivor has already come to a very different decision.

“Never, my king,” he says, turning his head to press his lips to Halfdan’s palm. “I am yours.”

His belly swoops as Halfdan surges forward, so fast for a man his age that it makes Eivor’s head spin as he is pinned bodily to the wall, a happy groan welling up in his chest as Halfdan kisses him, all teeth and no mercy, hard and hungry and demanding, like it should be with a king, with a man as great as Halfdan Ragnarsson, even in his winter years.

“Yes,” Eivor murmurs against Halfdan’s mouth, his lips bruised and belly aching for more.

“Later,” Halfdan promises, low and intimate. “Enjoy the feast. Come to me sober, if you wish, when you wish.”

And then as quickly as he was there, he is gone.


End file.
